


like we used to do

by Philosoferre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Best Friends, Gen, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 11:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15095423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosoferre/pseuds/Philosoferre
Summary: “How’s your stalking going?”Courfeyrac jumps, his hand flying to close the notebook, and then he realizes it’s only Enjolras. He’s leaning over the table, arms crossed, frowning.“Be quiet,” Courfeyrac whispers. He doesn’t want Combeferre to know he’s here, much less for the sole purpose of watching him. “And don’t call it stalking.”Enjolras looks unimpressed, but he sits down anyway. “Okay, how’s yourfriendlyandnon-creepystalking going?”(or, the one where Combeferre suddenly stops talking to Courfeyrac, and he just really wants to know why.)





	like we used to do

**Author's Note:**

> ~~This is very personal and somewhat based on my experiences so please be kind.~~
> 
> It's been a while since I've posted a Les Mis fic... I hope you guys like this one! Title comes from We Don't Talk Anymore by Charlie Puth. <3

Courfeyrac has a problem. 

  


Okay, well, it’s not really a  _ problem _ . It’s a mystery he can’t solve, but, still - problem.  _ It’s _ not  _ a problem, _ Enjolras would say.  _ You’re just taking it way too personally _ . 

  


Well, he’s not the one stalking Combeferre, is he?

  


Now’s the part where Enjolras would roll his eyes and say,  _ stop overreacting, Courf. _ But Combeferre’s the one who’s been acting weird, so Courfeyrac isn’t being more dramatic than necessary. In fact, he waited a full three months before memorizing Combeferre’s secret after-school activities, which, disappointingly, are really just doing homework at the Musain. 

  


(Sometime last year, Combeferre stopped telling Courfeyrac what he was doing after school. 

  


“Are you free tonight?” Courfeyrac had asked, as they got their backpacks.

  


Combeferre shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m kind of busy.”

  


“Doing what?”

  


Combeferre slammed his locker and, barely even glancing at Courfeyrac, said, “Stuff.”

  


Courfeyrac kept trying to find out what he was doing, but when it became clear that Combeferre really didn’t want him to know, he stopped.)

  


And really, Combeferre would have to be an absolute idiot to not realize that Courfeyrac knows what he’s doing. He’s avoiding him, obviously. If it was just this one-time thing, Courfeyrac wouldn’t have a problem. Even Combeferre needs some privacy. But there’s a whole OneNote spreadsheet and whiteboard chart that proves it isn’t just one time. 

  


It was Enjolras’s idea, actually, to do that. He’s always been much more organized than Courfeyrac will ever be, so it wasn’t a surprise that he wanted to keep their problems in a neat chart. So far - according to Enjolras, anyway - Combeferre has refused to tell Courfeyrac what he’s doing 168 times, has avoided him at school 205 times, has cut their conversation short or discontinued it 247 times,  _ and _ has given him a very brief one-sided hug 39 times.

  


(“The hugs don’t matter,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes.

  


Courfeyrac scoffed and pulled the laptop away from him. “Yeah, they do. Hugs always matter.”

  


“No, they really don’t.” Enjolras added ‘hugs’ into the spreadsheet anyway.)

  


And the worst thing is, it’s senior year. Only nine months left, and then they’re all off to college, not that that’s something they ever talk about. Courfeyrac doesn’t want their friendship to end this year, of all years. It’s just not supposed to happen this way.

  


_ There’s no such thing as fate, _ Enjolras would say.  _ Nothing was supposed to happen in any way. _

  


And, okay, sure, maybe they were never destined to be friends forever. But even if they’re naturally going to stop talking, even if Courfeyrac’s the only one putting effort into their friendship, there’s still something off about Combeferre. He’s just… not the same, lately. 

  


Courfeyrac rests his head on his hand, sighs, and opens his notebook (the one Combeferre got him in tenth grade, the one with ‘don’t worry, sunshine’ written on it in gold) to a page titled  _ Ferre?? _ , which is otherwise blank. Another one of Enjolras’s ideas was to write down everything he thinks about the whole situation.

  


The problem is, Courfeyrac doesn’t really know what he thinks about everything. What’s he supposed to think? That maybe Combeferre’s making new friends? That maybe he’s moved on? The only thing he knows is that there’s something up, and it’s already ruining senior year. 

  


(Besides, he knows Combeferre has new friends. There’s a girl in his calculus class he talks to sometimes, and his nerd study group, and Grantaire, of course - the new kid everyone seems to like, even though he’s kind of an asshole.)

  


“How’s your stalking going?”

  


Courfeyrac jumps, his hand flying to close the notebook, and then he realizes it’s only Enjolras. He’s leaning over the table, arms crossed, frowning. 

  


“Be quiet,” Courfeyrac whispers. He doesn’t want Combeferre to know he’s here, much less for the sole purpose of watching him. “And don’t call it stalking.”

  


Enjolras looks unimpressed, but he sits down anyway. “Okay, how’s your  _ friendly _ and  _ non-creepy _ stalking going?”

  


“Are you trying to be helpful?” Courfeyrac asks. He shoves the notebook in his backpack.

  


Enjolras snorts. “Not on purpose. Sorry if I was.”

  


Courfeyrac just rolls his eyes. Enjolras is blocking the very narrow view he had of Combeferre, and now he can’t see anything at all. 

  


“He’s just studying, you know,” Courfeyrac mutters. 

  


Enjolras shrugs and steals a piece of Courfeyrac’s muffin. He doesn’t even like blueberries. “Is there something wrong with that?”

  


Courfeyrac rubs a hand over his face. He can’t believe Enjolras sometimes. “No. I mean - no, but why couldn’t he tell us? It’s not like he’s with Grantaire.”

  


And then Enjolras chokes, right on cue. Courfeyrac’s never going to admit it, but part of his plan is to get Enjolras to admit he has a crush. It’s probably not going to take much for that to happen.

  


(Either that, Courfeyrac reckons, or they’ll have angry sex one day. He won’t really care which happens first.)

  


“He could be-” Enjolras coughs. “He could be meeting Ferre here.”

  


Courfeyrac nods. “Right.” He leans across the table and frowns. “Does that sound like Grantaire to you?”

  


“I don’t know,” Enjolras says, a little defensively. “He’s only been here a month.”

  


“That’s enough time to get to know someone,” Courfeyrac says.

  


Enjolras rolls his eyes and takes another piece of the muffin. He glances at Combeferre, who, miraculously, hasn’t heard either of them yet, and sighs. “We don’t talk a lot.”

  


“Maybe you should.”

  


Enjolras glares at him for a solid thirty seconds, and then he leans back and shakes his head. “I thought you were here to stalk Ferre.”

  


“I am,” Courfeyrac mutters. He leans over and pokes Enjolras’s shoulder. “Besides, you didn’t even have to come.”

  


Enjolras swats at his hand, but he doesn’t bother moving. “Hey, I want to know what’s up with Ferre too. I’m just not obsessed with it.”

  


Courfeyrac almost says something about how he’s totally not obsessed with this,  _ at all _ , but it’s not worth his effort. Enjolras would just keep fighting with him, and eventually he’d admit that, okay, yes, he’s a little obsessed. 

  


“Look,” Enjolras says, sighing. “I’m not attacking you. I’m just… like, why is this so important to you?”

  


Courfeyrac shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  


He has a lot of theories, but none he’s ready to admit. None he’s ready for Enjolras to know about.

  


“Is it because Ferre’s making new friends?” Enjolras asks. He sounds a little concerned, but he has no reason to be. 

  


“No,” Courfeyrac snaps. “No, I don’t know. I mean, it’s senior year, you know? And he’s allowed to make new friends, of course he is, but he’s kind of ignoring us, so.”

  


“Are you seriously blaming Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, an eyebrow raised.

  


And no, not at all, Courfeyrac’s not blaming the new kid. As much as he wants to, he can’t blame Grantaire, because it’s not like he’s purposely driving them apart. He’s probably not even aware that Combeferre and Courfeyrac aren’t talking as much as they used to. 

  


(Courfeyrac wants to blame Combeferre, too. He wants someone he can pinpoint, someone he can let all his anger and hurt out on. But he’s not very sure why they aren’t talking, and maybe - god, maybe it was both of them.)

  


“I don’t think there’s anyone to blame,” Courfeyrac says. 

  


Enjolras gives him a sad smile.

  


-

  


Courfeyrac tries to not stalk Combeferre for the rest of September, he really does. He tries not to get jealous when he sees Combeferre laughing with Grantaire, he really does. He tries to pretend that everything’s okay, he really does. 

  


But maybe trying isn’t enough.

  


-

  


“Hey, what are you planning to do for Halloween?” Courfeyrac asks. He throws a slice of his orange at Combeferre to get his attention.

  


Combeferre, on his part, doesn’t look very impressed, and just puts it on the side of his plate. “Halloween’s not for another three weeks.”

  


Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Uh, yeah, but we have to start planning our costumes.” He tries not to look at Grantaire, who’s mostly irritated he’s been interrupted. Not that anyone except for Enjolras and Combeferre cared about his dumb story. (Which, okay. Whatever.) “I was thinking we could be, like, a meme. Distracted boyfriend - and then we could get Enj to join us, or… or maybe, like, the Powerpuff Girls or-”

  


“I wasn’t really planning on wearing a costume,” Combeferre says.

  


And - oh. Of course. God,  _ of course _ he doesn’t want to dress up with Courfeyrac.  _ Of course _ he doesn’t want to embarrass himself around Grantaire, because god forbid they have a little fun during their senior year.  _ Of course _ . 

  


It takes a while for Courfeyrac to realize he has to say something, so he just nods, and tries not to sound too broken. “Yeah, sure. I, uh, I don’t even know if I’m going to dress up, so.”

  


Which is a lie, a very obvious lie Combeferre would catch if he was paying attention. But the minute Courfeyrac stops talking, he turns back to Grantaire and listens when he continues his story. It’s a strange feeling, knowing that someone you care about doesn’t feel the same way about you. Knowing that Combeferre just doesn’t view him as his number one anymore. That they aren’t best friends forever, whatever that might mean now. 

  


It’s a very strange feeling, and Courfeyrac doesn’t want to get used to it.

  


(Later, when they’re heading over to the Musain after school, Enjolras nudges his shoulder and says, “Hey, do you want to hear what I’m going to go as? For Halloween?”

  


And Courfeyrac’s day is a little better.)

  


-

  


Courfeyrac wishes that Combeferre didn’t even talk to him, because that’d make everything so much easier. He wishes that Grantaire would just replace him entirely, and that he’d never have to pretend everything’s okay between them because there wouldn’t be a them. He wishes - and god, this probably hurts the most - he wishes that Combeferre would just stop pretending he cares.

  


_ Hey, how’s that musical going? _ Combeferre asks sometimes, between class changes or during lunch.  _ The one you’re writing? _

  


And every time he asks, Courfeyrac just has to swallow his pride and grit his teeth and say, in a voice that’s probably too happy even for him,  _ Good. I don’t have too much time to work on it, you know, with school and all, but it’s good. _

  


_ Good, _ Combeferre says. Disinterested.

  


And then Grantaire comes, like he always does, and steals Combeferre away with his grandiose tales and funny jokes and, seriously, Courfeyrac tries his best to hate him, he does, but it’s near impossible. Grantaire’s exactly Combeferre’s type - he’s funny and witty and smart, and he gets excited over dumb nature documentaries and reads old books, and he’s got a way with words and art and people, and he’s just. He’s perfect. Combeferre always says that “there’s no such thing as perfect people,” but Courfeyrac’s pretty sure he wouldn’t say that about Grantaire.

  


The worst part is that even Enjolras has taken to him. Enjolras, god of driving people away, has finally found someone who makes him laugh, who gives him the arguments he needs, who’s smart and well-read just like him. Courfeyrac knows he’s not as intelligent as his friends, he knows, but they never treat him like shit for it. And it’s not that Grantaire does that, he really doesn’t - it’s just that being around smart people, people who are obviously so much better than him, isn’t doing good for his self-esteem. 

  


_ I don’t even like him, _ Enjolras says, every time he realizes that they’ve accidentally left Courfeyrac out of their conversation. Again. 

  


_ It doesn’t matter, _ Courfeyrac says, brushes it off. 

  


The  _ he’s still everything I’ve never been able to be _ part goes unsaid.

  


-

  


“I’m winning this year’s costume contest,” Courfeyrac says. 

  


Enjolras refuses to walk if there’s bad weather, and Courfeyrac refuses to let Combeferre give them a ride no matter how much times he offers, and so they’re stuck waiting at a cold, otherwise empty bus stop. 

  


Enjolras snorts. “Not if I win.”

  


“Do you realize what you just said?” Courfeyrac asks, slowly, grinning. 

  


“What?” Enjolras’s eyes go wide. “Aw, Courf, no. Wanting to win something isn’t capitalist.”

  


Courfeyrac fixes his backpack straps matter-of-factly. “Well, you’re profiting, right? If you win?”

  


“Yeah,” Enjolras says. 

  


“Capitalist,” Courfeyrac sings. 

  


Enjolras laughs and pushes him with his shoulder, but he doesn’t argue. He’s the one who decided to literally dress up as capitalism. There’s actual Monopoly money stapled to his shirt. 

  


“And what makes you think you’re going to win?” Enjolras asks. 

  


Courfeyrac grins. “I’m sexy Rainbow Dash, Enjolras. Of course I’m going to win.”

  


“Right,” Enjolras says. 

  


When they get to school, Courfeyrac’s only a little disappointed that no one comments on his costume. Well, sure, everyone was probably expecting it. And, okay, there are people who say it’s nice. And, okay, it’s a lot of people.

  


(Courfeyrac doesn’t really care what all those people think. He doesn’t actually care if he’ll win the contest. He just cares what Combeferre thinks.)

  


“Wow,” Grantaire says, sliding up to him in class. He’s wearing a tabby cat onesie, and there’s a Beanie Boo tag attached to the floppy ear on his hood. He whistles. “Is it hot in here, or is it just you?”

  


Courfeyrac, who really can’t help but like him, laughs and hooks two fingers under Grantaire’s chin, and leans forward. “You want to see the magic of  _ my _ friendship?”

  


“Stop ruining children’s shows.”

  


Courfeyrac glances over at Combeferre, and -  _ oh _ . He tries to ignore that feeling that his heart’s sinking. Combeferre’s wearing a onesie too, but it’s a moth, of course, he’s such a nerd, and he’s got the same Beanie Boo tag Grantaire has. Matching costumes, then. There’s no way this was a coincidence.

  


“I’m not ruining anything,” Courfeyrac says, laughing. He sees the sad smile Enjolras is giving him, but he ignores it. “Canonically, they’re all lesbians and they have orgies all the time.”

  


Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Sure, okay.”

  


“So,” Enjolras says, clearing his throat. He drags his chair up to Courfeyrac’s desk. “Stuffed animals?”

  


Grantaire scoffs. “Arguably  _ the greatest _ stuffed animals of all time. Beanie Boos.”

  


“It’s cute that you think that,” Courfeyrac says. So maybe he’s a little upset, a little jealous, a little mad. So maybe he feels a little betrayed. Whatever, right? It’s not like it matters.

  


Grantaire just laughs. He’s got such a nice laugh, and it makes Courfeyrac mad that he can’t even hate that. “Speaking of which, Enjolras’s costume is cute. Meow you doin’?”

  


“Thanks?” Enjolras says, a little confused. He’s blushing. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “That was a terrible pun.”

  


“And nothing about my costume?” Courfeyrac asks, playing offended. “I came to school thinking I looked sexy and you boys just keep letting me down.”

  


He expects Combeferre to say something, for some reason, but he doesn’t. He just has this  _ look _ on his face, like he’d rather be talking to anyone else. 

  


Grantaire winks. “I never said you aren’t sexy. I love the whole vibe you’ve got going on.”

  


“It’s also canon that Rainbow Dash moonlights as a stripper,” Courfeyrac agrees, and damn, there’s no way he can hate Grantaire now. 

  


“I believe that,” Grantaire says.

  


Just as Courfeyrac thinks of something funny to say, he sees Combeferre lean over and whisper to Grantaire, and then one of them says “see you later” or whatever, and they’re gone. Just like that. 

  


Courfeyrac sighs and slumps back in his chair. Enjolras shrugs. 

  


“They’re wearing matching costumes,” Courfeyrac says, and this time he doesn’t try to hide how broken he feels. There’s no point. Enjolras already knows.

  


“Yup,” Enjolras says. “Matching costumes.”

  


-

  


Courfeyrac wins the contest, but the terribly-made award feels awkward and heavy in his hands when he makes his speech. When he looks out at the crowd, taps the microphone to make sure it’s working, he admits to himself that it was never them he wanted to please. He never really wanted to win some dumb “Best Costume” award. 

  


He just wanted Combeferre to think that.

  


-

  


“Did you see Eponine’s costume?” Courfeyrac asks. He leans against the locker next to Enjolras’s and pokes him in the shoulder.

  


Enjolras shrugs. “Yeah.”

  


“Iconic,” Courfeyrac says. “Epoqueen. That’s the best pun I’ve ever heard.”

  


Enjolras shrugs again. “Well, she thinks she’s royalty, so. It wasn’t even that impressive.” 

  


“Wow, Enjol _ sass _ , stop the shade.” Courfeyrac pokes him again. “Eponine’s great. Plus, she’s our queen anyway.”

  


Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Enjolsass? Really? You’re a child.”

  


“Your favourite,” Courfeyrac says, grinning.

  


“Maybe,” Enjolras mutters. He slams his locker shut and swings his backpack onto one shoulder. “There’s actually a lot of people I like more than you.”

  


Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Then why don’t you hang out with them?”

  


“You’re the only one who tolerates me,” Enjolras says.

  


Courfeyrac reaches up and ruffles his hair. “True. You  _ are _ a pain.”

  


“Whatever.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Let’s go.”

  


They walk to Enjolras’s house instead of taking the bus, even though it’s freezing as hell and Courfeyrac’s practically naked, and everything’s all wet and muddy and kind of gross. But, still. There are already kids trick-or-treating, and seeing them in their age-appropriate costumes, holding bags full of candy, is a nice break from high school.

  


“So what are we watching tonight?” Enjolras asks, when they get to his street. 

  


Courfeyrac’s glad Enjolras is at his mom’s this week, because he’d rather not be seen in his Rainbow Dash costume in his dad’s rich, fancy-ass neighbourhood. And anyway, his mom’s nicer. She lets them stay up as late as they want.

  


“Mean Girls,” Courfeyrac says, grinning. 

  


Enjolras huffs. “I meant a Halloween movie.”

  


“Scream,” Courfeyrac says.

  


Enjolras shakes his head. His backpack strap slips down his shoulder. “No way. I don’t do horror movies.”

  


“Mean Girls,” Courfeyrac repeats. It’s on his bucket list to get Enjolras to watch every teen movie ever created. 

  


Enjolras rolls his eyes, smiles, but he doesn’t argue. 

  


-

  


The whole time they watch Mean Girls, Courfeyrac keeps thinking about Combeferre. He remembers the first time they watched it together - fourteen, cramped up on the old couch in Combeferre’s basement, sharing a bowl of buttery popcorn and a can of Coke they weren’t technically supposed to have. He remembers laughing and talking, and somehow Combeferre ended up with m&ms stuck in his hair. 

  


He remembers not really watching the movie, because he had something better to look at.

  


-

  


Watching movies with Combeferre, Courfeyrac decides, is so much better than watching movies with Enjolras. Sure, Enjolras talks with Courfeyrac, and he likes that artificial flavouring on his popcorn, too, but there’s just something off. And even though Combeferre doesn’t like talking during movies, and he only tolerates butter, Courfeyrac misses his company. He keeps expecting to see Combeferre beside him whenever he turns around, keeps expecting to be told  _ shut up, I’m trying to pay attention _ , but it never comes.

  


(Maybe - god, maybe Combeferre just makes him feel complete. Maybe the prospect of being alone with Combeferre sounds a little more appealing than being alone with Enjolras.)

  


“Cady’s an interesting character,” Enjolras says, shoving handfuls of popcorn in his mouth. He’s still staring at the tv screen with rapt interest, even though the movie’s already ended.

  


Courfeyrac shrugs. “Personally, I like Janis more.”

  


“Of course you do.” Enjolras offers the nearly-empty bowl to Courfeyrac. “You’re basically Damian.”

  


Courfeyrac puts a hand over his heart. “Was that a reference? What have I done to you, Regina George?”

  


“Are you-” Enjolras narrows his eyes. “I’m not Regina George.”

  


Courfeyrac shrugs. He throws a popcorn at Enjolras, but he doesn’t catch it. He sucks at that. “You kind of are.”

  


“Am not!” Enjolras swats him with a pillow. 

  


Courfeyrac laughs, and for the first time in what feels like a long time, Combeferre isn’t on his mind.

  


-  


  


Enjolras’s mom ends up leaving them alone at six, because she’s meeting someone for a date. 

  


(“Ew,” Enjolras said, making a face. 

  


His mom laughed. She has a nice laugh. “Oh, come on. You know Paul.”

  


“Paul?” Enjolras made another face. “He’s gross.”

  


“You’re not the one dating him,” his mom said. She leaned over the counter, smiled, and booped his nose.

  


“God, mom,” Enjolras said. “Don’t.”)

  


The nice thing about being alone is that, well, they’re alone, but it sucks because their only realistic option for dinner is pizza. 

  


“So what do you want to do?” Enjolras asks. He refuses to leave his post by the door, in case the pizza guy shows up any minute. Which, really. They called five minutes ago.

  


Courfeyrac flops down on his couch and sighs. “We could throw a party?”

  


“I don’t know enough people,” Enjolras says. He takes things way too literally sometimes.

  


“It was a joke,” Courfeyrac says. 

  


Enjolras just blinks at him. “Okay. So?”

  


Courfeyrac rolls over onto his stomach and looks at Enjolras. “What do you have in mind? I can’t be the only one making decisions.”

  


“But you’re the dominant one in this relationship,” Enjolras teases. Funny, not-serious Enjolras is Courfeyrac’s favourite side of him. It’s when he’s really at his best, when he feels comfortable enough to let go. 

  


(Courfeyrac won’t tell anyone this, but he feels honoured that Enjolras feels comfortable around him. He’s not like that around most people.)

  


Courfeyrac grunts and sits up. “We can switch roles.”

  


“If that’ll make you happy,” Enjolras says. “Do you want to talk about Ferre?”

  


Courfeyrac’s heart skips a beat. “What about Ferre?”

  


“You know. The whole… thing. He’s avoiding you, and you’re avoiding him, and something’s up.” Enjolras snorts. “I’m not stupid, Courf.”

  


“I- I know,” Courfeyrac says, a little quickly. “I just don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”

  


Enjolras nods. “Okay. Good.”

  


“Good,” Courfeyrac parrots. He doesn’t need to talk about Combeferre.

  


-

  


Courfeyrac needs to talk about Combeferre.

  


He hates that he’s only realized this now, because he’s finally gotten Enjolras to agree to watch Mulan, and he hasn’t even had the chance to prove that Shang’s bisexual, but he can’t stop thinking about Combeferre, and it’s really eating him up.

  


“Is your offer still on the table?” Courfeyrac asks.

  


Enjolras pauses the movie and nods. “It was never off the table.”

  


Courfeyrac sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and leans back. He wishes the couch would just swallow him. “Good. I just- it’s really bothering me, and I don’t know why. Ferre can have other friends, he doesn’t have to spend all his time with us.”

  


“Maybe,” Enjolras says, “and I’m just taking a wild guess here - but have you considered that you might want to be more than friends? With Ferre?”

  


_ Yeah. I just haven’t come to a conclusion. _

  


“Well, we’re already best friends, so,” Courfeyrac says. 

  


Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I mean, maybe you want to go on a date with him. Kiss him. Have sex with-”

  


“Jesus, that escalated quickly,” Courfeyrac interrupts. “Not in my Christian household!”

  


“Be serious,” Enjolras says.

  


Courfeyrac scoffs. “I genetically can’t be.”

  


Enjolras takes a deep breath. He’s not a very patient person, but still, kudos to him for going this long without yelling at Courfeyrac. Must be a record. “Well? I’m just saying, it seems like you have a crush on him.”

  


“What makes you think that?” Courfeyrac asks, and if his voice goes a little higher, Enjolras doesn’t mention it.

  


“Where do I begin?” Enjolras cracks a smile. He probably thinks he’s making Courfeyrac uncomfortable, but he isn’t. (What is, however, is the thought that someone else could tell what Courfeyrac feels. And if Enjolras, of all people, can do that, then Combeferre most certainly can too.) “You’re jealous of Grantaire-”

  


“Am not,” Courfeyrac says defensively. He tries to look offended. “That’s like saying you’re jealous of Ferre.”

  


Enjolras blushes. “-and you can’t stop talking about Ferre, or thinking about him, and it’s just. You know. You look happy whenever you see him, but also a little sad. Like you can’t really make up your mind.”

  


Enjolras has a point, unfortunately. 

  


“Well, that doesn’t mean I have a crush on him,” Courfeyrac retorts. “It could just be friendly friend feelings I have for a friend.”

  


Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “But are they just friendly?”

  


“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac whines. Talking with Enjolras about feelings is like seeing a therapist, and Courfeyrac really isn’t in the mood for therapy. He needs a friend, dammit. 

  


“Take a quiz,” Enjolras says.

  


Courfeyrac sits up and looks at Enjolras, blinks slowly. Enjolras looks very serious. He can’t be.

  


“A quiz?” Courfeyrac repeats. 

  


Enjolras looks offended. “Hey, I once took one on BuzzFeed like you’re always telling me to, and it was right, so.”

  


“A BuzzFeed quiz,” Courfeyrac says. God help him. “You want me to take a fucking BuzzFeed quiz to decide if I have a crush on Ferre?”

  


“When you say it like that it sounds stupid,” Enjolras mutters. He holds his hands out defensively. “And hey, I’m not saying it’s going to tell the truth. But I mean, if you take five quizzes and they all say you have a crush on Ferre, then maybe you do. They’re just supposed to help you figure things out.”

  


“A quiz?” Courfeyrac smacks Enjolras on the head with a pillow. “You’re the stupidest person I know.”

  


Enjolras grins. “Or the smartest.”

  


-

  


“It’s really not a reliable website,” Courfeyrac says. He frowns and scrolls through the list of quizzes under the  _ Crush _ category. “They’re all written by twelve-year-olds. Or perverts.”

  


Enjolras snorts and takes the laptop from him. They’re sitting on Enjolras’s bed, backs against the wall, and there’s a whole six-pack of Sprite cans beside Courfeyrac. He doesn’t even know where Enjolras got them from.

  


“Here, do this one,” Enjolras says. He gives Courfeyrac the laptop and opens a can. It makes a loud pop. “It’s not targeted for heterosexuals, I checked.”

  


Courfeyrac laughs. “Heterosexuals? No one says that.”

  


“I hate the word straight,” Enjolras says. “Now do the quiz already.”

  


Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, but he presses “start quiz” anyway, and tries to pretend that Enjolras isn’t watching him. 

  


-

  


“You dream about Ferre?” Enjolras asks, eyes wide. 

  


Courfeyrac shoves his face away. “Shut up.”

  


-

  


Courfeyrac has taken seventeen quizzes in the past half hour, and every single one of them says he’s crushing on Combeferre. Which might not even be true. Some of the things the quizzes asked about could apply to friendships. Doesn’t everyone think about their friends? Or get jealous when they hang out with other people? Or feel happy whenever their friends talk to them?

  


That’s just normal, friendly friend stuff. 

  


“You’re disappointed,” Enjolras says. He’s taken to lying across Courfeyrac, because apparently the wall “isn’t comfortable”.

  


Courfeyrac sighs. “No.”

  


“Then why do you look disappointed?”

  


“I’m not,” Courfeyrac says. “These quizzes are just shit. Half of the stuff here goes for friendships, too. Like, just because I think about a person doesn’t mean I want to date them.”

  


Enjolras sits up, his elbows digging into the side of Courfeyrac’s leg. He winces, but doesn’t do anything about it. 

  


“Let me take the quizzes then,” Enjolras says. He grabs the laptop, and shifts so that he’s pressed against Courfeyrac’s side. “If you’re so sure these things apply to friendships.”

  


Courfeyrac scoffs. “They do, trust me.”

  


-

  


_ For 40% you are: You definitely don’t like him.  _

  


“Okay,” Courfeyrac says, slowly. He glances at Enjolras, then at the laptop, then back at Enjolras. “Forty percent doesn’t even mean anything.”

  


Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Courf, face it. I’m pretty sure you have a crush on Ferre.”

  


“Forty percent isn’t even half,” Courfeyrac says. 

  


Enjolras just sighs, like he does every time he’s annoyed. Not that Courfeyrac really cares about that. He’s trying to figure out what went wrong, why every quiz told him he likes Combeferre and told Enjolras the exact opposite. 

  


“It’s okay,” Enjolras says, softer, gentler. He pats Courfeyrac’s arm. “It’s okay if you like Ferre.”

  


“I can’t like him,” Courfeyrac says, a little broken. He feels like he’s going to cry.

  


Enjolras ignores him. “Now you have to decide what you’re going to do with that.”

  


-

  


They don’t bring Combeferre up until Enjolras’s mom forces them to go to sleep at two in the morning. She came back close to midnight, with Paul, and they watched some romantic comedy Courfeyrac and Enjolras may-or-may-not have been secretly watching from the staircase. 

  


Courfeyrac doesn’t really understand what Enjolras’s problem with Paul is, and he doesn’t think he ever will. His parents are still married, they love each other, and one of them definitely didn’t marry a twenty-five-year-old homophobic trust fund kid six months after the divorce. 

  


(“She wants me to call her mom,” Enjolras said one day, as they were waiting for the bus. He gets this look on his face every time he talks about his step-mom. “And I can’t do that. She’s only seven years older than me.”

  


“Call her Lucy, then,” Courfeyrac suggested. “That is her name, right?”

  


Enjolras sighed. “Yeah, I was thinking of calling her Satan.”

  


That made Courfeyrac’s day.)

  


Courfeyrac kept suggesting they read ghost stories, but Enjolras is a baby and he can’t handle anything remotely scary after dark, so instead they’re just lying in Enjolras’s bed, not really talking. Courfeyrac can only think of Combeferre. There’s nothing else on his mind.

  


“Why can’t you like him?” Enjolras asks quietly.

  


Courfeyrac turns to look at him. “What?”

  


“Earlier,” Enjolras whispers, “you said you can’t like Ferre. Why?”

  


Courfeyrac shrugs. “I just can’t. I don’t know.”

  


“But why?” Enjolras asks.

  


“I-” Courfeyrac rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

  


“You won’t,” Enjolras says.

  


Courfeyrac sits up. “You don’t know that. You  _ can’t _ know that. Besides, he doesn’t like me back.”

  


“You can’t know that,” Enjolras says. 

  


“Well, I do,” Courfeyrac huffs. 

  


Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m not so sure.”

  


Courfeyrac flops back down on the bed and puts a pillow on his face so he can scream in teenage angst without bothering anyone. Even though he can’t see anything, he knows Enjolras is giving him his classic unimpressed look. He does that a lot.

  


“Goodnight,” Courfeyrac whispers.

  


Enjolras is silent for a moment, and then he says, “Goodnight.”

  


And if Courfeyrac dreams of Combeferre, of picnic dates and stolen kisses, no one has to know.

  


-

  


November’s an uneventful month, except for Combeferre’s birthday on the nineteenth. He’s turning seventeen, and he isn’t even at school. Courfeyrac can’t even wish him a simple  _ happy birthday _ , and that makes him sad. Not because he has feelings for Combeferre, or anything. Definitely not.

  


At lunch, after telling Enjolras and Courfeyrac why Combeferre isn’t at school (his parents insisted on taking him to some dumb, nerdy exhibit at some dumb, nerdy museum), Grantaire takes a box of cupcakes out of his backpack, and gives them each one.

  


“They’re from Ferre,” he says. “Told me to give them to you guys today.”

  


Enjolras blushes when Grantaire’s hand touches his. Watching them interact is probably the most adorably disgusting thing Courfeyrac has ever seen, and he loves every minute of it. 

  


“When did he have time to give them to you?” Courfeyrac asks, and if he sounds a little rude, no one mentions it.

  


“Yesterday,” Grantaire says. 

  


Courfeyrac tries to ignore that heart-sinking feeling he has, he really tries. But, god, the thought that Combeferre and Grantaire met up yesterday, that Combeferre couldn’t just give them the cupcakes then, is making him really nauseous. And a little jealous. 

  


Okay, a lot jealous. 

  


(This time, Enjolras has nothing to say. No excuse for why Grantaire and Combeferre were hanging out. No “I’m sure he wanted to be here today”. And maybe it’s better that way.)

  


-

  


“What are you guys getting me for Christmas?” Courfeyrac asks, drumming his fingers on the table. Grantaire glares at him, and he just flashes him a smile. “ _ Holidays _ , sorry.”

  


“A gift card to a sex shop,” Grantaire says. He sounds serious, but his smile tells Courfeyrac otherwise.

  


Courfeyrac bats his eyelashes. “Oh, you do know how to treat a man.” He steals one of Enjolras’s fries before he can notice. “But seriously, what am I getting?”

  


“What do you want?” Enjolras asks.

  


Courfeyrac scoffs. “Geez, that’s not how you give people presents. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

  


“So I can give you whatever I want?” Enjolras clarifies, an eyebrow raised. 

  


“Yes,” Courfeyrac says.

  


Enjolras nods, smiling smugly. “Good. Problem solved.”

  


“Wait, no.” Courfeyrac groans. “No, not whatever you want. It has to be something I like.”

  


Enjolras and Grantaire spend the rest of lunch listing things Courfeyrac would like, including a My Little Pony bicycle, or tickets to Rihanna even though she’s not coming here anytime soon, or a sequined rainbow blanket, amongst other highly improbable things. 

  
  


It’s only when the bell rings, and Grantaire asks Enjolras if he’d like to go gift shopping for him (like friendly friends do, sure), that Courfeyrac realizes Combeferre hasn’t spoken to him at all. 

  


(He’s not even that sad anymore. He’s just tired.)

  


-

  


It’s snowing at the end of the day, which sucks because Enjolras forgot his jacket, and he keeps complaining about it. Courfeyrac really wishes their lockers weren’t so close.

  


“Why didn’t you bring a jacket in the first place?” Courfeyrac asks. 

  


Enjolras huffs. “I didn’t know it was going to snow.”

  


“Did anyone?” Courfeyrac mutters. He tugs his backpack out of his locker and turns to face Enjolras, who’s trying, unsuccessfully, to shove every book he has in his bag. “We’ll take the bus, you’ll be fine.”

  


“But it’s cold,” Enjolras whines. 

  


“Here, take this.” Grantaire holds out his hoodie, dark green and paint-stained, smiling hopefully. His locker’s right next to Courfeyrac’s, which kind of sucks. Combeferre’s always there, waiting for him. 

  


Enjolras blushes and takes the hoodie. It’s big on him, but it actually doesn’t look too bad. Like it belongs on him. 

  


“When did you two start dating?” Courfeyrac asks.

  


Enjolras’s blush turns a darker red. “What- we’re not-”

  


“I’m kidding,” Courfeyrac says, bumping his shoulder. “You know, there’s that whole thing where boyfriends give their girlfriends their hoodies - or, well, boyfriend in this case. It’s a joke.”

  


Grantaire stares at him. “I was just trying to be nice.”

  


“You are,” Enjolras says, a little too quickly. “Uh, I mean. Thanks.”

  


Grantaire nods and smiles at him. Courfeyrac feels like gagging. Not only is Enjolras going to get the happy ending he wants, he’s going to have to watch them be all disgusting and cute every day. Every. Single. Day.

  


“Let’s go,” Courfeyrac says. He leaves without waiting to check if Enjolras and Grantaire are following him.

  


(Later that night, once they finish their homework and Courfeyrac has gotten Enjolras addicted to trashy reality tv, Enjolras asks how he’s doing. With the whole Ferre thing. And Courfeyrac shrugs, says good, fine, great, and leaves out the part where he wishes Combeferre would give him his hoodie, too.)

  


-

  


“Ferre asked to hang out,” Courfeyrac says. 

  


There’s a pause. And then Enjolras says, “Okay. Maybe you should tell me more.”

  


Courfeyrac sighs and holds his phone up with his shoulder so he can continue stalking Grantaire’s instagram. Not that he’s finding anything useful, but, still. He’s a good photographer. He has cute cats.

  


“You’re stalking his social media?” Enjolras asks, and oh shit, Courfeyrac said all of that out loud. Whoops. 

  


“There’s a shirtless picture of him on Eponine’s page, if you want,” Courfeyrac says. “Just saying. And that’s not the point, anyway.”

  


Enjolras coughs. “Then what is?”

  


“So I was at the library, right, during free period, and Ferre just tells me he thinks we should hang out.” Courfeyrac flops down on his bed and puts his phone on speaker. 

  


“Why?” Enjolras sounds confused.

  


“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac whines. “He said something about the musical, and how he wants to hear more about it but lunch is too short to talk or whatever.”

  


“The one you’re writing?” Enjolras asks. “You haven’t touched it in like three months.”

  


Courfeyrac shoves a pillow over his head. “I  _ know _ .”

  


“Wait, why did you wait until now to tell me?” Courfeyrac can imagine Enjolras, frowning at his phone or the wall, eyes narrowed.

  


Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Not the point.”

  


“I know,” Enjolras says, sighing, “the point is that your crush asked you to hang out.”

  


“What should I do?” Courfeyrac really just wants to crawl in a distant hole and die, preferably somewhere he’ll never be found. 

  


Enjolras is silent for a moment. “Just a wild guess, but maybe you should hang out with him. He might want to clear things up, you know.”

  


“No way.” Courfeyrac scoffs. “But maybe, I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

  


“You will? Promise?”

  


Courfeyrac sighs. “Yeah.”

  


-

  


He does think about it, like he promised, but Combeferre never brings it up again, and they never end up hanging out. 

  


(Courfeyrac wonders sometimes why Combeferre even wanted to in the first place. Maybe he did have something he wanted to say, like Enjolras said. But if it’s really that important to him, he’ll find another opportunity to say it.)

  


-

  


It snows for the next few days, and then, magically, it stops on the fifth of December. Which is great, because Courfeyrac really needs some fresh air, and the walk to and from the bus stop doesn’t count.

  


“Hey, what were you planning on doing?” Courfeyrac asks.

  


Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t know, homework probably. Or we could go to the Musain, if you want.”

  


“God, yes,” Courfeyrac says. “And we can gossip.”

  


Enjolras frowns. “I don’t like gossiping.”

  


Courfeyrac grins. “Yeah you do.”

  


“Fine.” Enjolras scowls, but he doesn’t keep arguing. He knows Courfeyrac’s right, like he always is. 

  


They don’t talk much as they leave the school, but then Courfeyrac realizes he didn’t see either Grantaire or Combeferre. Which is weird, because they usually walk out together, for familiarity’s sake. 

  


“Hey, where’s Ferre?” Courfeyrac asks. It’s starting to snow, again. Light and fluffy.

  


Enjolras shrugs. “I think he left with Grantaire. They were going to his house, or something.”

  


“Oh.” Courfeyrac isn’t sad. Or disappointed. Or jealous. He’s none of the above.

  


Enjolras nudges him. “You okay?”

  


“Fine,” Courfeyrac says, and he knows Enjolras catches onto the lie. He doesn’t care at this point. As long as Combeferre doesn’t catch on, he’s okay. He’ll be okay.

  


(Enjolras finds out later, when they’re on their second round of hot chocolate at the Musain, that Combeferre didn’t go over to Grantaire’s. Not that it helps Courfeyrac. He’s still a little sad.

  


Even though their friendship is falling apart, Combeferre still says bye to him, every day. He didn’t say bye today.)

  


-

  


“If I have to put up with Ferre’s dumb ass for more than seven hours a day, I swear to god,” Courfeyrac huffs. He takes the seat in front of Enjolras and buries his head in his arms. 

  


“About that,” Enjolras says.

  


Courfeyrac slowly looks up, frowning. Enjolras is giving him an awkward I-Have-Bad-News smile. There’s a folded piece of paper in his hand. Whatever this is, it can’t be good. Unless, of course, he was finally admitting to running a secret cult - in which case, Courfeyrac would join. It’s on his bucket list.

  


“Filing for divorce already?” Courfeyrac asks. He’s not very good at handling bad things unless he makes it funny. He thinks he’d be able to write a great sitcom.

  


Enjolras’s smile only gets more awkward. “Uh, well, no.”

  


Courfeyrac stares at Enjolras. Enjolras stares at Courfeyrac. They’ll probably age by fifty years by the time one of them says anything. 

  


“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac’s seriously getting worried. “What’s going on?”

  


Enjolras hands him the paper. “It’s… well, it’s the sleeping arrangements for the trip. The one we’re taking in April.”

  


Courfeyrac almost doesn’t want to look at it, but he needs to make sure he’s not going to have to share a bed with Enjolras McOctopus the Serial Suffocator (as he’s so lovingly nicknamed him). Or Combeferre. Honestly, Courfeyrac can’t really decide who’d be worse.

  


“I’m sharing with Grantaire,” Enjolras says, voice small. He looks halfway between disgusted and excited. “Unfortunately.”

  


Courfeyrac laughs. “Unfortunately, my ass. Y’all are lucky you have to share. That means you can fool around.”

  


“Why would we-?” Enjolras is blushing a deep crimson now. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Courf.”

  


“My whole body’s down there,” Courfeyrac says, grinning. “I can’t.”

  


Enjolras scowls. “Just look at it already.”

  


Courfeyrac sighs and lays the paper on the table. He looks for his name, and then- 

  


“Shit,” he says.

  


Enjolras nods. “I’ll hold your funeral when we come back.”

  


Courfeyrac stares at the paper. This year really isn’t his year. “No, hold it tomorrow so I don’t have to go.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Really?”

  


“Sorry.” Enjolras shrugs. 

  


Courfeyrac glares at him. “Hey, you get to share a bed with your crush. That’s a fanfiction trope, Enjolras.”

  


“I don’t read fanfiction,” Enjolras says. “Besides, you get to do that, too. Think of it as a good thing.”

  


Courfeyrac makes a frustrated noise. “How is it a good thing? Ferre hates me-”

  


“He doesn’t hate you,” Enjolras interrupts, rolling his eyes.

  


Courfeyrac scoffs. “Well, he isn’t talking to me, so.”

  


“Maybe you’ll solve your problems by then,” Enjolras says. He smiles, less awkward then before. More encouraging. God, he’s practically Courfeyrac’s personal cheerleader. “We still have a few months.”

  


-

  


Enjolras and Grantaire are practically having public sex, and Courfeyrac’s really glad it’s their last day before winter break. He doesn’t know how much more of this he would’ve been able to handle, and he doesn’t want to test his limit. Enjolras is staying here for Christmas, for the first time in years, and Grantaire’s going to stay with his aunt in Athens, and their two-week separation is probably why they’re making out against Enjolras’s locker. Either that, or they literally can’t keep their hands off each other.

  


(They finally got their shit together two weeks ago, and they haven’t stopped being cute and gross since. Courfeyrac’s happy for them, he really is. He just wishes he could get the same Hallmark-channel happy ending.)

  


“We’re going to miss the bus,” Courfeyrac says, clearing his throat. 

  


He tries to pretend he isn’t impatiently waiting, but then he thinks he sees Grantaire’s hand slide a little lower and way past public decency, and he can’t just let it continue. So he chucks an empty soda can at Grantaire. He misses, unsurprisingly.

  


“I’m going to miss you,” Enjolras whispers. He’s been smiling a lot lately. It looks good on him.

  


Grantaire kisses down his jawline. “It’s only two weeks.”

  


“Two weeks too much,” Enjolras says. He laughs when Grantaire kisses him again, and pulls his shirt down where it’s ridden up. 

  


“I love you too,” Grantaire says, accentuating every word with a kiss. 

  


Enjolras laughs again. Grantaire makes him laugh a lot, which is good, but it also makes Courfeyrac kind of sad. He stopped making Combeferre laugh a long time ago.

  


Enjolras wraps his hands around Grantaire’s neck and pulls him in closer. Courfeyrac thought it was impossible that there was any space between them. And then Enjolras whispers something, quiet enough that Courfeyrac can’t hear, and Grantaire smiles and- they’re kissing again. 

  


Courfeyrac sighs. “Great.”

  


“How long do you think you’ll be waiting for?” 

  


Courfeyrac barely turns to acknowledge Combeferre. He doesn’t want to feel that familiar heavy ache in his heart, not today. Besides, Combeferre was probably on his way out anyway. Courfeyrac doesn’t want to keep him.

  


“Eternity,” Courfeyrac says. He wishes there was a bench nearby, but there isn’t. Of course. And now Enjolras has his legs hooked around Grantaire’s waist, and that’s just great. Just great. 

  


Combeferre sighs. “Seems likely.”

  


This time, Courfeyrac looks up at him, and then he quickly looks back down before Combeferre notices. “Tell me about it, they’ve been getting high off each other’s saliva for like a decade.”

  


Combeferre laughs, and god, Courfeyrac missed that sound. He misses being the one who makes Combeferre laugh, who makes him smile, who makes him happy. And if it’s only this one moment, this one joke, he’ll be okay with that. He just wants Combeferre to be happy.

  


“I like that,” Combeferre says. He’s still laughing. 

  


Courfeyrac laughs, too. He can’t help it. He almost forgets that Enjolras is about to lose his virginity in their school hallway, but then he sees them again, and he can’t decide if he’s internally gagging or if his heart’s grown by three sizes. 

  


“I should-” Combeferre pauses and turns to look over his shoulder, in the general direction of the door. “I should get going.”

  


“Oh,” Courfeyrac says.

  


Combeferre frowns. “I have a flight to catch later, so. I can’t miss that.”

  


“Right,” Courfeyrac says, nodding, although he doesn’t remember hearing anything about a flight. “Of course, I don’t-”

  


Combeferre puts a hand on his arm and smiles that warm, comforting smile of his. The one that makes Courfeyrac feel like he’s home. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you after the break, yeah?”

  


There’s no  _ maybe we should hang out _ or  _ we’ll meet up _ . Courfeyrac gets it, gets that Combeferre’s going somewhere and it’s probably for the entire two weeks, but it still seems like he’s stopped putting effort into their friendship. Like now he can’t even be bothered to pretend he wants to hang out. 

  


“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says. 

  


Combeferre keeps his hand on Courfeyrac’s arm for a moment, and then he leaves, and Courfeyrac’s cold again. 

  


-

  


“Grantaire called today,” Enjolras says. 

  


Courfeyrac makes a gagging noise and throws a pillow at him. “Ew, gross. Who even calls anymore?” He sits up, grinning. “Unless-”

  


“What, Courf?” Enjolras looks irritated, but he gets it just as he sits down. He groans, and throws the pillow back at Courfeyrac. “Jesus, no. Do you really think we-?”

  


“Yup,” Courfeyrac says, just to spite Enjolras. 

  


Enjolras crosses his arms, but he’s blushing. “Well, we didn’t have… phone sex.”

  


“Then why did he call?” Courfeyrac asks, wrinkling his nose. “Old man.”

  


“He just wanted to talk to me,” Enjolras says. “He said he’s tired of speaking in Greek all day.”

  


Courfeyrac sighs and flops down again. He hugs Enjolras’s lion plushie, the one he’s had since preschool. “I bet he sounds sexy.”

  


“He always does,” Enjolras says, sighing dreamily. 

  


Courfeyrac makes another gagging noise. “You’re disgusting.”

  


Enjolras reaches over to punch his shoulder. He’s grinning like the lovesick fool he actually is. “But you love me.”

  


“Someone has to,” Courfeyrac retorts, dodging Enjolras’s pathetic attempt at a real punch. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and lies back, staring at the ceiling. He remembers the little nightlight Combeferre used to have, the one that cast stars and changed colour. “So what are your plans for the break? We’ve got, like, a week and a half left.”

  


Enjolras shrugs. Very expressive, that one. “Well, my parents were thinking of going to a chalet. I don’t know if I’ll go.”

  


Courfeyrac hums intelligently. “You should go. Have some fun, relax a little. God knows you need it.”

  


“What about you?” Enjolras asks, lips turned down in a disbelieving frown. He’s not going to take any of Courfeyrac’s bullshit right now, not that he ever does. But now his crap tolerance is even lower than usual. 

  


“I’ll be great,” Courfeyrac says, waving him off with his hand. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.”

  


The word  _ fine _ doesn’t mean anything to him anymore. It’s just another window Courfeyrac wishes Combeferre would look through.

  


-

  


Enjolras pushes the rest of his cookie at Courfeyrac and sighs. One week back from winter break and Combeferre still hasn’t talked to either of them. Well, apart from the mandatory “hello,” which Courfeyrac doesn’t count as talking. That’s just politeness.

  


“He doesn’t think of Grantaire as his best friend,” Enjolras says, resting his chin in his hand. He doesn’t even need to say who.

  


Courfeyrac huffs. “How do you know?”

  


“Grantaire told me,” Enjolras says, a little quieter.

  


“Hmm.” Courfeyrac traces circles on the table. He can’t look up and meet Enjolras’s eyes. He’s too scared of what he’ll find there. “Then why does he spend so much time with him?”

  


Enjolras doesn’t have an answer to that. Maybe it’s better that way.

  


-

  


By February, Courfeyrac’s ninety percent sure Combeferre doesn’t like him anymore. It really doesn’t help that every time they do talk, his heart beats fast and his stomach flutters and he keeps stumbling over words that seem to fall out on their own accord. It’s getting real hard to keep his crush under wraps, and he’s sure Combeferre already knows about it. He’s smart, he would’ve figured it out by now.

  


(“I don’t think he knows,” Enjolras says, as they wait in line at Starbucks. “Otherwise he’d- never mind.”

  


Courfeyrac doesn’t bother asking what  _ never mind _ means. He has a pretty clear image.)

  


At least Grantaire doesn’t suck as much, now that he’s turned more of his attention towards Enjolras, the golden boy of their little ragtag group, the absolute light of Grantaire’s life. Courfeyrac’s still never going to admit he’s warming up to him. That’s just in bad taste, for enemies. 

  


“You two going to the dance?” Courfeyrac asks, sliding up to Enjolras with a cold frappuccino in one hand and something weird with hibiscus in the other. He’s glad Enjolras still makes time for Weekly After-School Starbucks, a three-year tradition.

  


Enjolras looks confused. “What?”

  


“The Valentine’s Day Dance,” Courfeyrac explains. Sure, it’s still cold-ish outside, and Grantaire did have a point while he was giving him hell about wanting iced coffee, but Courfeyrac will stick to his gay rituals all year long. So, extra-whipped-cream frappuccino it is. “Are you and Grantaire going together?”

  


“I think,” Enjolras says. He makes funny faces whenever he drinks his hibiscus refresher, or whatever other shitty white girl name it has. Courfeyrac doesn’t know why he keeps ordering it. Something about “getting accustomed to the taste”. “We haven’t actually talked about it.”

  


Courfeyrac shakes his head. “I’m disappointed in you, son. Communication is the base of all good relationships.”

  


“Is that why you and Ferre aren’t working out?” Enjolras teases, tipping his drink towards Courfeyrac.

  


“Shut up,” Courfeyrac mutters. “It’s too fucking soon to make jokes about that.”

  


Enjolras shrugs. “Why don’t I ever get coffee? Like, straight-up bean juice. No milk or anything.”

  


“Because you’re an idiot,” Courfeyrac says sweetly, batting his eyelashes. He hopes Enjolras understands this is a sign of affection.

  


Enjolras snorts. “Takes one to know one.”

  


“You’re a dumbass,” Courfeyrac says, grinning. He holds his frappuccino up for a toast and Enjolras dutifully knocks their drinks together. That’s also part of their tradition. Not toasting would be like casting an unbreakable curse - they can’t risk foregoing it. “But seriously, what are your plans? Cause I’m pretty sure I’m going alone, so, I was thinking I could just tag along and be the third wheel. But like, a cool third wheel.”

  


“Why are you so sure you’re going alone?” Enjolras asks. He’s getting serious now. Great. Because that’s what Courfeyrac came to Starbucks for. 

  


Courfeyrac sighs. “I don’t have a date.”

  


“Ask Ferre,” Enjolras suggests.

  


He’s being entirely serious. That’s a shame. He should really know better.

  


“No way,” Courfeyrac says, chugging half his frap for some much-needed non-alcoholic liquid courage. Maybe it’s just placebo effect, but he always has more patience to deal with Combeferre after caffeine. “I’d literally rather drink swamp water for the rest of my life.”

  


Enjolras makes a gagging noise. “Ew, gross. Why is that even something you think of?”

  


“It’s an exaggeration,” Courfeyrac says. He sighs again. He’s been doing that too much lately. “I’m just saying, I don’t want to ask Ferre. That’s not going to end well.”

  


“Statistics,” Enjolras demands. “Wait, there aren’t any, because you’ve never asked Ferre to a dance with you.”

  


Courfeyrac jabs a finger at him. “Probability. There’s a one hundred percent chance he’ll say no.”

  


“There’s a fifty percent chance he’ll say yes,” Enjolras corrects, because he’s a smartass. And maybe because he’s trying to be a good friend. Statistically that’s unlikely. 

  


“I’ll think about it,” Courfeyrac says. 

  


-

  


“Have you asked him yet?” Enjolras asks, four days before the dance, shoving his chocolate milk at Courfeyrac. 

  


They’re alone at lunch today. Combeferre’s doing extra research for one of his essays, and Grantaire’s consoling Eponine after her fifth break-up with Montparnasse this year. 

  


Courfeyrac chugs half of the chocolate milk. “I think I legally can’t ask him.”

  


Enjolras doesn’t even ask.

  


-

  


Even though Enjolras and Grantaire gave him the green light to come with them, Courfeyrac ends up staying at home on the day of the dance anyway. His mom kept sending him sympathetic frowns before she left for her book club meeting, so now he’s all alone, eating doritos and drinking a disgusting (and very accidental - he forgot he already had something in the cup) combination of Mountain Dew and Coke, watching reruns of some dumb sitcom on tv. 

  


(And he feels so, so lonely. This evening would be much nicer with company.)

  


Just as the tv cuts to a commercial break, playing an ad Courfeyrac’s sure he’s seen about a thousand times before, his phone buzzes. It’s a text. From Combeferre. Courfeyrac thought his number wasn't even on Combeferre’s phone anymore.

  


**From: Combaeferre**

_ Hey, Courf. Are you free tonight? _

  


Bold of Combeferre to assume Courfeyrac’s not at the dance.

  


**To: Combaeferre**

_ lmao am i ever not free _

  


**From: Combaeferre**

_ So can we meet up? _

  


Courfeyrac’s sixth sense is telling him this is a trap, or some weird Satanic cult initiation thing, but the more gullible part of his mind is urging him to meet up with Combeferre. Maybe he’ll finally explain everything. And if not, Courfeyrac’s probably going to end up spilling his lovesick guts. Welp.

  


**To: Combaeferre**

_ sure  _

  


_ where ? _

  


It takes Combeferre less than a minute to reply, which makes Courfeyrac’s heart flip. He knows Combeferre well enough to be familiar with this - Combeferre only texts back quickly when he’s thought about something a lot, only when he’s got something planned to the very last detail. It makes Courfeyrac feel all fuzzy to know that, apparently, Combeferre’s been thinking about him often. Whatever that means.

  


**From: Combaeferre**

_ Evangeline’s. Ten minutes. _

  


Courfeyrac learned two things from that text: 1) Combeferre isn’t at the dance either; and 2) whatever he wants to talk about is really important. Evangeline’s is this washed-up diner barely anyone knows about, only five minutes from Courfeyrac’s house. It’s where a nervous fourteen-year-old Courfeyrac came out to Combeferre, just the two of them.

  


(Back then, it seemed like it was the two of them against the world. But now, Courfeyrac is pretty sure the world’s chosen a side, and it isn’t his.)

  


He gets to Evangeline’s two minutes early and grabs them a quiet table at the back, with a window nearby, so he has a distraction in case this turns out to suck. At this time, the place is always busy with people too caught up in their own minds, turning to a place full of understanding and good food, a cozy diner they can call home at two in the morning. 

  


But right now, Courfeyrac can’t find it in himself to appreciate the place. He’s running through every scenario in his mind - worst case, best case, the case he’s probably going to get. The one where Combeferre says he’s been a bad friend, the one where Combeferre admits he likes Grantaire more, the one where it turns out to be Enjolras checking up on him.

  


(He deliberately doesn’t think about the scenario where Combeferre has a crush on him too. That one’s not going to happen.)

  


The door chimes, startling Courfeyrac out of his chaotic jumble of thoughts. It’s Combeferre, in all his late-night glory, wearing a jacket that looks like it’s seen better days. It only registers now that it’s raining outside. Perfect weather, Courfeyrac thinks.

  


Neither of them says anything for what feels like eternity. Combeferre gives him a nervous smile when he sits down. Courfeyrac seriously debates texting his mom to come pick him up. 

  


“Hi,” Combeferre says finally, a little breathy and wholly adorable. 

  


God, Courfeyrac missed his voice. He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his feelings from bubbling up and spilling out. “Hi.”

  


Combeferre taps a rhythm Courfeyrac doesn’t know. Another one of his nervous tics. “I’m sorry, it’s-” He pauses, voice thick. “-it’s just been a while. We haven’t… talked. In a long time.”

  


“Yup,” Courfeyrac says, popping the  _ p _ , picking at a thread on his shirt. 

  


Combeferre lets out a shaky breath. “Listen, Courf. There’s a lot we have to go over. I know I haven’t been the best friend this year, I know. And I know- I’ve been paying Grantaire a lot more attention, and I… dammit, I never meant to hurt you so much.”

  


“Sure,” Courfeyrac snaps bitterly. If Combeferre thinks he’s going to fall for that old trick, he’s wrong. 

  


“Really,” Combeferre says, and god, he sounds so sincere. “I’m sorry. But before I clear all that up, I have to-” His voice breaks a little, and he steadies himself with a hand on the table. “-I have to tell you something. Don’t take it the wrong way. I just can’t keep it to myself anymore.”

  


Courfeyrac looks out the window and nods. He needs that distraction now. Combeferre takes another shaky breath and lays one hand out on the table, like he’s holding his heart out for Courfeyrac. Sue him if he’s hoping that’s what this is.

  


“Courf,” Combeferre says. The way that boy says his name - it’s like sweet honey dripping from his voice, sugar coating his throat. It reminds Courfeyrac of sunlight filtering through the window in the early morning. “Courf, I’m- I have a crush on you. Since last year, actually. And I wanted to tell you - it’s eating me up, and you deserve to know.”

  


Oh. That’s the one scenario Courfeyrac wasn't counting on, but it’s definitely the one he was hoping would happen. And shit. He doesn’t know what to do. Combeferre’s looking at him so open and honest, heart in his hand, and Courfeyrac really wants to tell him he feels the same way but he can’t find the words.

  


“Okay,” Combeferre whispers. His voice is so raw. 

  


Courfeyrac never wants to hear him talk like that ever again. “Wait,” he blurts. “I like you too. I think- I think I always have, but I only realized it now. This year. Not right now, you know what I mean.” He pauses, allows himself to smile. Just a bit. “God, Ferre. I’m so gone for you.”

  


Combeferre breaks into a smile. It’s the first time in months Courfeyrac’s seen him truly happy. “I’m glad we can agree on something.” 

  


“So what happens now?” Courfeyrac asks. He sneaks his hand onto Combeferre’s, lets Combeferre wrap his fingers around his wrist and hold him there. The two of them, together again - not against the world, beside it. 

  


“A date,” Combeferre suggests. “A date sounds good.”

  


Courfeyrac nods a little too enthusiastically. “A date. Okay.”

  


“Okay?” Combeferre asks hopefully.

  


“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says, letting his thumb slide over Combeferre’s warm, warm hand. The lights in the diner are too bright, and it’s getting late, and Enjolras and Grantaire are going to want after-dance fries soon. But for now, well. Now it’s just the two of them beside the world, in their own little fragment of time and space. “Okay.” 

  


Courfeyrac’s been saying that a lot lately. But this time he means it.

  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a [ playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/user/blqhkc60wdzgn0sen3w8w2lpw/playlist/1JNoGW9asy9Zln3csZyCwf?si=C8txTaV5THOjuieV79TwvA), and as always, I'm on [ tumblr ](http://epo-nine.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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